


moving on and moving away

by shoebox_addict



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 10:37:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20581142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoebox_addict/pseuds/shoebox_addict
Summary: “Have you ever thought about leaving London?”"Don’t tell meyou’rethinking of leaving. I thought you were the type to have that old Samuel Johnson quote tattooed somewhere on your body.”





	moving on and moving away

**Author's Note:**

> Technically this story sort of comes after "[before the strategies begin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20057113)." If you want to read this as a sequel, that could probably work. But I think you can read this on its own with no confusion whatsoever. In case you're interested, [here](https://www.countryliving.com/uk/homes-interiors/property/a498/dream-16th-century-cottage-in-west-sussex-up-for-sale/) is the cottage that I had in mind for later in the story.

Once upon a time, the world didn’t end. More than that, it thrived, and most everyone remained unaware of how close they’d come to destruction. Crowley might have ruminated upon this point, studying his fellow diners, but that was impossible when he was sat next to an angel who demanded all his attention. Scratch that -- Aziraphale was not the type to demand attention, but rather to quietly command it by being endearing and utterly watchable. Just now he was surveying the plate of small, delicate desserts the waiter had brought them. He reached for one, then pulled back and ran one finger along his bottom lip, deciding. 

“I’m sure they’re all delicious, angel,” said Crowley, smiling fondly.

Aziraphale tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Don’t make fun.”

“I’m not, honestly,” he said. “But we have great, big buckets of time. We can spend all afternoon here, and you can eat them all.”

“I know, but the first one sets the tone,” said Aziraphale, completely serious. After a moment more of deliberation, he chose a small square of chocolate cake topped with yellow icing flowers. Crowley watched as he took the first bite -- with the correct dessert fork, of course. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment, and sighed happily when he swallowed. 

“Good, then?” said Crowley, fingers toying with the stem of his champagne flute. 

“Exquisite,” said Aziraphale, happily tucking into the rest of the cake.

A bit of cake sounded like rather a good idea after the day he’d had, but Crowley wanted to watch Aziraphale enjoy himself. He reckoned it would take several afternoons like this, and more than a few evenings cosied up on the couch in the bookshop, to put him at ease. He hadn’t even gotten over the pressing heat and emptiness of the bookshop’s destruction. Now he had to live with the idea that, were it not for their body swap, Aziraphale would have been forced into a column of hellfire. Best not to sleep for a few weeks, he thought. Why even tempt his brain into feeding him those nightmares?

With the final bite of his cake gone, Aziraphale dabbed his napkin at the corners of his mouth and glanced at Crowley. “Aren’t you going to have any, my dear?”

_My dear._ Crowley had always thought those words were a mere affectation, all part of Aziraphale’s dandy image. But now they meant rather more, after the night spent at Crowley’s flat. It hadn’t yet sunk in that the angel had finally, at long last, met him halfway. Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps that was all a dream, and there was nothing special behind Aziraphale’s words after all. 

But then Aziraphale leaned over and placed his hand on top of Crowley’s. Every molecule in Crowley’s body froze, not wanting to move an inch lest the moment end prematurely. He met the angel’s gaze and was disarmed by the look of concern in his pale eyes. He supposed he had been rather quiet since they’d arrived, and he didn’t want Aziraphale to worry.

“Yes,” said Crowley, quickly. “Yup. Of course. I’ll have that squidgy one, then.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, carefully moving the dessert plate closer to Crowley. He rather pointedly kept his other hand where it was, and Crowley thought, _Not a dream, then._

“The chocolate mousse cake,” said Aziraphale, raising his eyebrows. “An excellent choice.”

Crowley ate the mousse cake, and it was divine. Aziraphale ate a cream puff in one bite and rubbed his thumb gently along Crowley’s knuckles, smiling at him. This made it rather difficult to concentrate on the mousse cake, but Crowley made a valiant effort.

Outside the Ritz, Aziraphale instinctively walked toward the Bentley, but Crowley stopped him with a light touch on his elbow. Spurred on by that pleasant bit of hand-holding, Crowley wanted to show the angel that he could make the first move as well. Aziraphale turned to him, and Crowley linked their arms together, pulled him close.

“Let’s walk,” he said, nodding down the street. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, pleased, puffing himself up. “What about the car?”

“It can take care of itself,” said Crowley. “I’ll just have it come to me later tonight.”

“You might be rather preoccupied tonight,” said Aziraphale. “You might forget.”

Crowley cleared his throat awkwardly, attempting not to swallow his tongue. “Cheeky! It hasn’t even been a full day and I reckon this freedom’s gone straight to your head. Or to parts farther south, perhaps.”

“Ooh, now who’s cheeky?” said Aziraphale, tightening his grip on Crowley’s arm. “But, honestly? It does feel quite good, to know that we’ll be left to our own devices now. I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

“Well, I think we have Agnes to thank for that.”

“Yes, I know, but it was all thanks to your...form,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley didn’t need to look at him to know he was blushing. He could hear the blush in his voice. How could this ridiculous creature imply sexual debauchery in one breath and get all ruffled over the word _form_ in the next? He continued, “I could never have made it out of Hell if I were just myself.”

Crowley frowned. “Don’t sell yourself short. Don’t forget, you’ve been fraternising with a demon for centuries and keeping it all a secret from Heaven.” 

“That was far simpler,” said Aziraphale, shrugging when Crowley gaped at him. “I know what Heaven wants to hear, it was easy to fudge the reports.”

“Whatever you say, angel,” said Crowley, shaking his head. “I stood before Gabriel and his fucking backup singers, and I respect your moxie.”

Aziraphale leaned a bit closer as they walked, so close that Crowley thought he might be about to kiss him on the cheek. “I rather think that’s undeserved praise, but thank you, my dear. Tell me, what did they subject you to?”

“Hmm?” Crowley blanched, his brain going haywire at the question. Perhaps he could pretend he didn’t understand. He could change the subject -- what else could they talk about? Flowers? Dogs? Chewed gum? He was just listing things that he saw on the street. 

“I told you all about the blessed bath,” said Aziraphale. “I want to know what Heaven had in store for me.”

“You don’t want to hear about that, s’not important,” said Crowley, very quickly. “Listen, what were you saying about how preoccupied I might be tonight…?”

“I disagree, it’s very important,” said Aziraphale. “At the moment, I appear to be free of them, but what if they come calling again some day? What if they ask me about the witticisms I spouted in their faces, and I’m terribly confused? We should get our stories straight, so to speak.”

Crowley shook his head. “No. Forget it. You will _never_ have to deal with them again.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Come now, Crowley, you can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can. I’ll make sure of it.”

Aziraphale stopped walking, and Crowley had no choice but to stop as well. “Are you quite all right, my dear?”

Crowley took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Images of the flaming bookshop flashed through his mind, a hellfire tornado engulfing the building and taking Aziraphale with it. “I’m fine. I just. Think about whether you want to know, angel. Really think about it.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes shifted uncertainly, studying Crowley’s face. A little worried wrinkle had appeared between his brows as he tried to understand what Crowley might be implying. All at once, realization dawned on his face, and it broke Crowley’s heart. He watched the resignation harden in his eyes, his mouth set in a grim line. 

“I want to know,” he said, voice steady and proud. 

Crowley sighed and glanced around the busy street. He screwed his eyes shut and deflected everyone’s attention away from them, then transported them straight into the bookshop. Switching locales was as much for Crowley’s sanity as it was for privacy. Standing inside the reliable old building, with reliable old Aziraphale by his side, shored up his mind against any more thoughts of impending doom. 

“Right,” he said, gently removing his arm from Aziraphale’s grasp and shifting so he stood in front of him. Best to do these things quickly, in one go. “They didn’t give you a trial."

Crowley could tell that Aziraphale tried very hard not to react, but something changed in his eyes. He couldn’t tell if it was surprise or simply a jaded sort of understanding. 

“I see,” said Aziraphale. “Well, what did they do?”

“Well, at first they had me tied to a chair,” said Crowley. “They all stood around verbally abusing you, and then some demon came round from downstairs. He brought...well, he had hellfire. And Gabriel just sort of ordered you to walk into it.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, now clearly taken aback. 

“They didn’t care about you,” said Crowley, shaking his head. “I honestly can’t believe how horrible they were. There was no forgiveness, and certainly no mercy. I mean, I’d expect that from them if they were dealing with me, actually me. But you’re one of their own, or you were.”

“Well, indeed,” said Aziraphale, frowning. 

“I’m not saying this to be cruel, angel,” said Crowley, taking a step toward him. “I just think you should have all the facts, and you did ask.” 

“I know, of course,” said Aziraphale, waving him off. 

Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets, waiting to see if Aziraphale exploded or cried or something. But he just stood there digesting what Crowley had told him. The wrinkle of worry was stuck there, between his eyes, and Crowley felt ill knowing that he’d caused it. After a moment, Aziraphale’s expression softened and he took a deep breath, shoulders drawn up to his ears and then drifting back down slowly. 

“Well.” He was blinking rather a lot, and it made Crowley want to give him a hug. “I suppose this is good to know. Helpful information to have.” 

Crowley found that all he could do was nod. Aziraphale opened his mouth, as though to say something more, then closed it, looked down at the floor, and walked away. Crowley turned to watch him, just to be sure he was all right, and saw him sit down at his desk. He rubbed both hands roughly over his face and left them there for a moment. Then he put on his glasses and buried his nose in a book. He remained that way for the rest of the day, quietly turning pages. Crowley wasn’t sure if he was actually reading or if he just wanted to do something comforting and familiar. After an hour or so, Crowley brought him a cup of cocoa. 

Eventually it got dark and Crowley heard the scrape of Aziraphale’s chair across the floor. He got up slowly from the couch, where he’d been reading an old magazine he’d left at the shop ages ago, and followed the angel upstairs to his flat. When he found the bedroom, Aziraphale was under the duvet and the light was already off. Not knowing quite what to do, Crowley spoke to the dark room. 

“Angel? What do you need?”

For what felt like a long while, there was no response. Then, “Would you stay? Please?”

“Of course,” said Crowley. “Do you want me downstairs, or…?”

The response came more quickly this time. “No. Here, with me.” 

Crowley gently lifted the duvet and slid into the surprisingly comfortable bed. Before he could move closer or reach out, Aziraphale shifted toward him and took his hand. Crowley squeezed his fingers and wrapped his other arm around the angel. Aziraphale tucked his head under Crowley’s chin, and Crowley nuzzled his cheek against the soft pale hair. It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to fall asleep, and Crowley hoped that was because he felt safe.

* * * * * * 

When Aziraphale woke the next morning, it was a new day in more ways than one. He felt a bit muzzy from sleeping through the night, which he did so infrequently. When he'd got up from his desk the night before, he'd felt weary, not just tired. This was something in his bones, and he typically had to reach this point of exhaust before he decided to sleep. It occurred to him that he'd reached this point twice in just two days -- he'd slept after they'd averted the apocalypse as well. Perhaps something had gone wrong when Adam restored him to his body, perhaps he was more given to tiring himself out now.

Of course it wasn't as though life was plugging along like normal. He'd spent hours possessing Madame Tracy's body, and then faced down Satan himself. Now he'd learned that his employers -- _former_ employers, rather -- had been prepared to summarily execute him. Perhaps things would return to normal one day, but for now he thought maybe he'd better pay attention to his body if it wanted to sleep.

Sleep had added benefits these days. When Aziraphale woke up, he found that Crowley still had one arm around him, and his face was pressed against the demon's chest. It was very warm and pleasant in Crowley's embrace, and Aziraphale wondered idly how long he could feign sleep and just stay here. Crowley was snoring softly, and there was something about this that made Aziraphale’s heart swell. He thought maybe it was that this was a private fact about Crowley, one that perhaps no one else knew. And he, Aziraphale, was now privy to it. 

As he lay there, comfortable and cozy, and just on the verge of falling back asleep, Aziraphale thought about what Crowley had told him. The details of his non-trial were shocking, and yet they weren’t. Really, he should have been expecting that sort of reaction from the head office. Aziraphale had been living in active opposition to their idea of the Great Plan for centuries, millenia, and he’d been getting away with it, largely because Heaven didn’t pay him much attention. Now he had, in essence, made himself impossible to ignore, and they were upset with him. In some ways, it was a relief -- now they knew, now the ties could be officially broken. Still, it was rather a shock to learn the depths of your employers’ cruelty, no matter how much you disliked them. 

Crowley stirred momentarily, then clutched Aziraphale closer and kept right on sleeping. Aziraphale’s heart swelled once more, and he thought about Crowley standing in front of Gabriel in his body. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to have seen that. He should be focusing on that rather than the whole hellfire business. Yes, it was far more productive to think about Crowley sneering at the archangel than it was to dwell on his narrowly avoided destruction. Were it not for Crowley, were it not for their connection...but then, without Crowley, he likely wouldn’t be in this situation at all. Given the choice, he’d take Crowley, no matter the consequences, and he had done time and time again. 

It was clear that he wasn’t getting back to sleep any time soon, so Aziraphale gently extricated himself from Crowley’s grasp. The demon mumbled something, then rolled onto his side and planted his face in Aziraphale’s pillow. Aziraphale kissed the top of his head and went to make some tea. When he returned with two steaming cups, Crowley was slowly waking up, staring at the ceiling. 

“Good morning,” said Aziraphale, setting one cup down on the small table beside the bed. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did,” said Crowley, stretching his arms out and emitting a satisfied groan. “For someone who claims not to sleep, you have a very comfortable bed.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I sleep occasionally. Just not the way you do, for eighty years at a time.”

Crowley sighed. “Never gonna let that one go, eh?”

Aziraphale smiled cheekily and climbed back into bed, careful not to spill his tea. “It was a very lonely eighty years. I brought you some tea.”

“Cheers,” said Crowley, rolling over to take the cup from the table. He took a sip, and another, and then glanced over at Aziraphale. “Are you...how are you?”

Sometime after Aziraphale had fallen asleep, Crowley had removed his sunglasses. This meant that Aziraphale was now caught in the full force of Crowley’s wide, yellow gaze. The effect, as always, was arresting, and Aziraphale had to hold back a rather swoony sigh. 

“I’m all right,” he said, clutching his cup with both hands. The heat radiated through his palms, a reminder of the simple humanity of this form. “Honestly. I’m glad you told me, and I meant what I said yesterday. This is helpful information; now I know where I stand with the folks upstairs.”

Crowley nodded. “You’re sure you’re all right? Because, you...well, I was beginning to worry last night.”

“It was a shock,” said Aziraphale. “It’s something I’d expect more from your lot. But I suppose we were each dealt a hand from the same deck. Annihilation by holy water is just as awful as destruction by hellfire.”

“Indeed,” said Crowley, pulling a face. 

“But I think we should look on the bright side of all this,” said Aziraphale. When Crowley raised a skeptical eyebrow, he continued. “Now that I know how far gone Heaven is, I don’t have to care about doing their bidding any longer.”

“Angel, you haven’t cared about that for centuries,” said Crowley, smirking at him. 

“Yes, I know,” said Aziraphale, his cheeks going a bit pink. “But now I can do so without worrying about them swooping in unannounced. If, that is, you’re right in thinking they’ll leave us alone.” 

“Yeah, they will,” said Crowley, taking another sip of his tea. “If nothing else, I think we’re just too weird for them. They’ll prefer to not even think about us, at least for a bit.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement and clutched his cup more tightly. For a while they just sat together drinking their tea. London was coming to life outside the flat, and Aziraphale could hear car horns and snippets of conversation. He thought about when he’d first opened the bookshop, all those years ago, and an ill-timed visit from Gabriel had nearly meant having to abandon it. Since then he’d clung to the old, dusty building like a security blanket. It was his safe haven, his base of operations, his home. But perhaps now it was time for something different. He had the sense that he was at a crossroads, and that it was time to choose another path. 

“Have you ever thought about leaving London?” he said, trying to sound casual. 

Crowley made an incoherent noise and stared at him. “Don’t tell me _you’re_ thinking of leaving. I thought you were the type to have that old Samuel Johnson quote tattooed somewhere on your body. If you were a tattoo sort of person, that is.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Be serious, now. What if we went somewhere else? Just for now?”

Crowley smiled at him, a bit disbelieving. “We?”

“Well, of course, my dear,” said Aziraphale, slightly annoyed that he had to explain this at all. “We’ve established how we feel about each other. You can’t imagine that I’d pick up and leave town without you.”

Crowley turned around and set his cup back on the bedside table. Then he turned back to Aziraphale and said, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?” 

Aziraphale didn’t respond. Instead he simply miracled his own cup back to the kitchen and leaned closer to Crowley, wrapping his arms around the demon’s waist. Crowley smiled and kissed him, fingers grasping at the hair at the back of his neck. It was a lazy drag of lips, teeth, and tongues, far more leisurely than the night at Crowley’s flat. This was a kiss for Sunday mornings, for days that had absolutely nothing penciled into them. Aziraphale wondered how many other ways there were to kiss Crowley, and quietly dedicated himself to discovering them all. 

“You made a lovely pillow last night,” said Aziraphale, when they broke apart, enjoying the feel of Crowley’s breath on his neck when he chuckled at this. 

“So that’s why you’re bringing me along, eh? It’s just for my soft and supple body.” 

Aziraphale’s stomach turned over in an odd, pleasant sort of way. “Oh, my dear. It’s for much more than that, but it certainly doesn’t hurt that I’ve been fantasizing about being in bed with you for quite some time.”

Crowley surged forward to kiss him again, more hungrily this time. Aziraphale moaned into his mouth, pressing closer, feeling quite glad that he’d decided to Make The Effort. For most of his time on earth there simply hadn’t been a reason to do so. In fact, it was far easier to forgo The Effort altogether and avoid rather embarrassing and bothersome experiences. But after the night they’d spent at Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale thought it might come in handy in the near future. He’d made the alteration before switching bodies with Crowley, to hopefully clarify his intentions, should they survive.

“Hmm,” said Crowley, hands at Aziraphale’s waist. “Approximately how long have you been fantasizing?”

“Oh, I’d trace it back to a cell in the Bastille,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley gasped softly and tried to pass it off as a disbelieving chuckle. “That’s...rather a long time, angel. Tired of waiting?” 

“God, yes,” said Aziraphale, kissing along Crowley’s jaw.

“Well, no one’s watching,” said Crowley, lips against the shell of his ear. 

“At long last,” Aziraphale gasped, pulling Crowley in for another proper kiss. 

The Effort actually didn’t require much effort at all. Once it was there, it needed only the barest amount of encouragement to get started. Aziraphale was not a complete newcomer to this particular part of his anatomy. After all, he’d been there for Greco-Roman wrestling, and certain parts of the nineteenth century had been rather titillating. Aside from any of that, it came in handy when one’s tailor asked whether one dressed to the left or right. And there was nothing quite like an afternoon spent at one’s tailor.

This is all to say that the mere suggestion of Crowley’s breath on Aziraphale’s neck was causing a familiar heat to pool in his abdomen. As they continued to kiss, Aziraphale became aware that he was fairly straining at his trousers. Crowley noticed as well, mainly because Aziraphale rutted forward suddenly in search of a helpful thigh, and Crowley smiled against Aziraphale’s lips. 

“Here’s another bright side,” he said. “Freedom clearly agrees with you, angel.”

“Would you...would you touch me?”

“Of course.” 

“I...I want to do other things, obviously, but it’s a bit soon for all that,” said Aziraphale, tripping over his words as Crowley kissed his neck. “Not that I haven’t done those things, only it’s been a while.”

“Shh,” said Crowley, pressing an unbearably tender kiss to his lips to quiet him. “Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to go fast with me.”

Aziraphale felt an ache in his chest at those words, at how they sent him straight back to the Bentley on a darkened street in the 1960s. “Oh, Crowley. Have I ever apologized for that?”

“No need,” said Crowley, kissing him again. “Please, let’s just be here, now.”

Aziraphale wanted to apologize further, to explain his reticence all those years ago. But it would have taken quite some time, and far more faculties than were currently at his disposal. As he tried valiantly to form words, Crowley’s hand crept below the waistband of his pyjamas, long fingers curling around him. Aziraphale probably should have been embarrassed by the noise he made, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

“Oh, that’s...just like that,” he mumbled, clutching at Crowley’s shoulders. He’d forgotten how good this could feel, to feel that you barely had control over your own body. Aziraphale was at the mercy of Crowley’s hand, and the demon seemed to know exactly how to unravel him. 

“Fuck,” Crowley breathed, shifting a bit but keeping his rhythm steady. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. I can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”

“Don’t stop...oh, whatever you do, don’t stop,” said Aziraphale, thrusting into Crowley’s hand. Then, with a herculean force of will, he stilled his hips. “Wait...wait, do stop.”

“What? Is something wrong?” said Crowley, pausing instantly. 

“Yes, you’re not getting anything out of this exchange,” said Aziraphale, running his hands down Crowley’s sides. 

“I would argue otherwise, but -- _oh_...” Crowley trailed off as Aziraphale palmed the bulge in his trousers, providing just enough pressure to make his mouth go slack.

For a moment, Aziraphale forgot his own needs and instead watched Crowley’s face as he touched him. He’d never seen the demon so unguarded, so completely enthralled and not making any moves to hide it. He made a desperate sound at the back of his throat when Aziraphale’s fingers tugged at the fly of his jeans. He dropped his head down to watch as Aziraphale freed him and began stroking him slowly. _Interesting,_ thought Aziraphale, making a mental note that Crowley liked to watch.

Crowley’s breaths came more harshly with each movement of Aziraphale’s hand, and he couldn’t seem to decide where to touch him. Aziraphale paused and leaned in close, “Together, my dear.”

This elicited another desperate noise, torn from Crowley’s throat. He cupped Aziraphale’s face in his hands, forcing him to look up, and then crushed their lips together. It was at this point that Aziraphale lost track of all space and time. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing outside the tangle of their bodies, and the feel of Crowley’s tongue sliding against his own. With each desperate breath drawn in through his nose, Aziraphale could smell the familiar smoke and musk of Crowley. He’d never worked out whether the demon wore some type of cologne, or if that was simply the smell of him. Either way, it was intoxicating as it engulfed Aziraphale now, flooding into his brain so that all he could think was _Crowley_ and _yes._

“Is this good?” said Crowley, forehead pressed against Aziraphale’s. He was looking down again, watching their hands move on each other.

“Yes, my dear, yes,” Aziraphale breathed. “You’re doing so well.”

Aziraphale’s climax came as something of a surprise. He was so focused on watching Crowley -- the heaving of his thin chest, the movement of his hips, the enraptured look on his face -- that he completely missed the signs. So he was caught unawares when his pleasure spilled over, and he pitched forward, leaning into Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley ran his free hand up and down Aziraphale’s spine, murmuring ‘I love you’s into his ear. The waves of it undulated through Aziraphale’s being, and he turned his head to press his lips to Crowley’s throat, wanting as many points of connection between them as possible. 

“I love you, too,” he said, as he began to calm down. Then he tightened his grip on Crowley and began working him again, other hand on the back of his sweaty neck. 

“Fuck,” said Crowley, bending, curling toward Aziraphale like a plant toward the light. He jerked his hips, hands roving all over Aziraphale’s body as he got closer to the edge.

“That’s it, love,” he said, grazing the fingers of his free hand along Crowley’s sharp jaw. “Almost there…”

Crowley cried out as he came, hips moving frantically as he rode the wave. Aziraphale was glad that he’d come first, that he could watch this without distractions. Crowley gasped and moaned softly as his pleasure ebbed. He was loose-limbed and had a lovesick look on his face when he locked eyes with Aziraphale. That look struck Aziraphale at his very core, and before he knew quite what was happening, he was crying. Crowley wrapped him up in his arms, drawing him close and shushing him. 

“It’s all right, angel. It’s okay.”

Crowley didn’t even know what was wrong, and yet he was comforting him. This only made Aziraphale cry more, burying his face in the demon’s shoulder. “I love you so much, my dear.”

“I love you, too. Always have,” said Crowley, so simply, as though it were just a fact of the universe written when She’d created it all. 

“You’re not helping, you know,” said Aziraphale, half laughing and half crying. “If you’d just stop being so sweet, I could get a handle on my bloody tear ducts.”

“No can do, angel,” said Crowley. “I’m afraid I’ll have to carry staggering amounts of tissue wherever we go. You know, in case I'm accidentally sweet again."

“Oh, honestly,” said Aziraphale, shaking his head and wiping at his eyes. “So silly.” 

“Not silly at all,” said Crowley, gently swiping a thumb across Aziraphale’s cheek. 

Aziraphale smiled at him, lost for words. He leaned forward into another kiss, and Crowley melted against him. _Oh,_ he thought, _I could do this for a very long time._ Which was rather a good thing, because they suddenly had all the time in the world.

* * * * * * 

“Where would we even go?” said Crowley, a few days later, as he lay sprawled on the bookshop couch.

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale came bustling in from where he’d been sitting at the till. He was wearing those ridiculous spectacles. “What did you say, dear?”

Crowley got his legs under himself and sat up on his knees. “Where would we go? The other day, you mentioned leaving London. But where else is there, eh?”

Aziraphale removed his glasses and actually held the stem up to his lips as he thought. Crowley stared at him, nearly losing track of the question he’d asked. It was in moments like this that he was grateful everything was out in the open, and that he could now stare with abandon. If he wanted to, right now, he could grab Aziraphale by the lapels and kiss him until he dropped those silly little spectacles. Crowley would fix them, of course, because he did actually like the way they looked. 

“France, for one thing,” said Aziraphale, at last. “Paris, naturally, but the south as well. I haven’t been to the south of France in ages.”

“Japan,” said Crowley. “All those massive forests, and the temples. Not that I could walk into any of those temples, mind.”

“Mmm, and sushi,” said Aziraphale, eyes wide. “Truly authentic sushi.”

“But of course,” said Crowley, who knew perfectly well that this would be Aziraphale’s argument for Japan. “Caught between your twin loves -- crepes and sushi.”

“Oh, it would be cruel to make me choose,” said Aziraphale, his mouth gone all pouty. 

Crowley tipped his glasses down his nose and looked at the angel over the lenses. “You’re teasing me.”

“What if I am?” 

Now there was simply no reason to hold back. Crowley reached out to grasp the lapels of Aziraphale’s waistcoat and jerk him forward. Aziraphale let out a surprised little yelp that was soon muffled when Crowley kissed him soundly. Aziraphale hummed against his lips, clearly pleased, and Crowley heard a small _poof_ that was surely the sound of those spectacles being safely transported back to the till. After that, they lost interest in the question at hand. 

Several days later, Crowley was hanging around the upstairs flat while Aziraphale made some customers go away. They’d been engaged in some rather enthusiastic snogging against a shelf of poetry when the little bell above the bookshop door had jingled. Aziraphale had used some rather colorful language, which made Crowley want to pull him close for round two. But the angel had gently pushed him away, straightened his waistcoat, and strode out into the shop. Crowley stayed behind just long enough to hear him say, “Oh, I’m afraid I was just about to close up for lunch” (it was a quarter past ten), and then slunk up the narrow staircase. 

Until now, Crowley hadn’t spent much time in the dusty little flat above the bookshop. He knew it was there, but it had always seemed off limits to him. In just a few weeks it had become common property, a space shared between them. It was still rather obviously Aziraphale’s flat, with its towers of books and expansive collection of cocoa mugs. But now there were mini-jungles of plants inhabiting any space with sunlight. The kitchen, which had simply been more room for books, was now in use. Crowley had updated the appliances and resolved to cook dinner at least once a week. It hadn’t been that long, but Crowley felt as though the place were becoming his home. Deep down, he knew it had been his home for quite some time, far more than his own flat had ever been. 

From his spot at the top of the stairs, Crowley could hear the customers asking questions about a Jane Austen box set that he knew Aziraphale adored. Their persistent belief that this was a bookshop that sold books was an unstoppable force currently beating against Aziraphale’s immovable object. They were going to be there for a while. Crowley wandered into the kitchen and plopped into one of the wooden chairs at the table. There was a small stack of magazines on the table, left there after Aziraphale had gone to the newsagent’s earlier that week for tea. 

Aziraphale insisted on supporting the businesses around the bookshop. He could very easily miracle in some tea leaves -- a fact that Crowley had reminded him of as they lay in bed together, deliciously cozy -- but he _insisted._ The angel had been gone for the better part of an hour, and Crowley was contemplating sending out a search party when he’d finally returned with a stack of magazines, some chewing gum, a selection of instant oatmeal, digestive biscuits, and the tea. 

“I’m sorry I took so long, but I just can’t help myself,” he’d said, looking so earnest and apologetic that Crowley couldn’t even be mad at him for making him worry. “Abdul has a family, and I can never resist picking up more than I need. I think you’ll rather like some of those magazines, though. Don’t look at me like that, there’s one about gardening.” 

Indeed, one of the magazines was called _Gardens Illustrated,_ but it seemed to be more about plant porn than actually caring for plants. All the same, Crowley needed a way to pass the time, so he sat thumbing through the glossy pages. Once he’d made it past the innumerable adverts (something for which, had he still been writing memos to the head office, he would have taken credit), there were some pretty spectacular photographs. One in particular, which showed the rustic growth around a small cottage, caught his eye. He was still staring at it when Aziraphale made his way up to the flat. 

“Well, they were awful,” he said, bustling into the kitchen to put the kettle on. “No matter what I told them, they somehow conjured up more questions. Finally I pretended it was time to take my ‘blood pressure medication’ and they went away.” 

“Hmm?” said Crowley, deep in thought. 

“The customers,” said Aziraphale, pulling out the chair beside him and sitting down. “Every now and then, I get a persistent bunch like them. I’ve closed the shop now, so we won’t be disturbed. Shall we, erm...return to the poetry section?” 

Crowley turned to him, a bit bemused. “Hmm? Oh, the poetry section, yeah. But listen, how does this strike you?”

Aziraphale, a bit hurt by Crowley’s dismissal of the poetry section, studied the magazine. “Well, it’s a lovely cottage, my dear. I’m glad to see you’re reading the magazines I got you.”

“Would you want to live here? I mean, could you be happy in the countryside?”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Are you saying we should buy a cottage?”

“Well, why not?” said Crowley. “I mean, look at this place they’ve profiled. There’s plenty of room for all your books and nonsense. And it comes with acres of land. I wouldn’t mind setting up my own improbable jungle in West Sussex.” 

Aziraphale took the magazine from Crowley and paged his way through the feature on the cottage near Petworth. Crowley watched him, chewing on his thumbnail, waiting for the angel’s verdict. He wasn’t sure what it was about the cottage, but suddenly it was the only place he could envision settling down with Aziraphale. It seemed like the perfect antidote to all their years in London and the eternity they’d spent hopping from place to place on assignment. They could have a fresh start, perhaps they could finally relax.

“You know, I don’t think I would have chosen the countryside,” said Aziraphale, nose still buried in the magazine. “But this is incredibly lovely.”

“Really? You think so?” said Crowley, slipping his phone out of his pocket and searching for Petworth on the map. 

“Yes, I suppose it would be rather nice,” said Aziraphale, setting the magazine down. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m looking up the village,” said Crowley. “Oh...now, I swear I’m not making this up, but there is actually an Angel Street there. And a place called The Angel Inn.”

“Good Lord,” said Aziraphale. He put on his spectacles and peered at the map Crowley had brought up. “Some people might say that’s a sign.” 

“Some might,” said Crowley, grinning at him. “There’s a bookshop in town as well.” 

“Well,” said Aziraphale, taking up the magazine once more. “I believe this article includes an estate agent’s phone number. Would you like to do the honors, or shall I?”

* * * * * * 

The cottage was perfect, and it cost an absolute fortune. Luckily, Crowley had one or two coals in the fire of London’s business world. When you essentially lived forever because you were an infernal being, you had time to play the long game. He’d made investments near the end of the nineteenth century that had been paying dividends ever since. While Aziraphale had blanched at the asking price, Crowley had coolly inquired whether the estate agent would accept a personal check. He was certain that the agent thought they were the world’s strangest couple. In a way, he supposed they were.

In the Bentley, on the way back from Petworth, Aziraphale fidgeted, hands in his lap, until Crowley asked him if he was having second thoughts. 

“I know we rushed into this,” he said. “If you’d rather not leave London after all, I’m sure we can get the money back. Sod it, the money means nothing. We don’t have to move if you don’t want to, angel.”

“I want to, I promise,” said Aziraphale. “It’s time for a change. But I’ve had the bookshop for so long, and we’ve made so many memories there.”

“Ah, yes. I, for one, will never forget the time it was on fire and I thought you were dead,” said Crowley, grimacing when Aziraphale shot him a look. “Sorry. I know, black humor’s not your thing.”

“Not when you’re joking about something that caused you such pain,” said Aziraphale, reaching out to touch his knee. 

Crowley wondered if he would ever get used to the casual touches, the everyday tenderness. Would there come a day when Aziraphale’s fingers grazing his arm didn’t cause a pleasant shock to his nerves? Something told him the spark was there to stay. “Y’know, you don’t have to sell the shop if you don't want to.”

“I don’t?”

“Nah, who says we won’t want to go back to London, even if it’s just for a visit? It’d be nice to have a place we can come back to.”

Aziraphale brightened. “I suppose you’re right. What about your flat?”

“Pfft, the place means nothing to me. Never has,” said Crowley. “Some rich arsehole can have it for his orgies.”

“What about the statue? You know, the one with the --”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Crowley, rolling his eyes. “I’ll leave it up to you, though I know what you’ll say. Shall we bring it to the cottage?”

“Heavens, no,” said Aziraphale, emphatically. 

“Right,” said Crowley. “End of an era. Suppose there’s no reason to keep a homoerotic, passive-agressive reminder of my forbidden desires.”

“No, indeed,” said Aziraphale, squeezing his knee gently. “Besides, if we’ve learned anything from the past few weeks, it’s that the configuration of that statue is all wrong.”

“Sculptor didn’t consult you, I suppose,” said Crowley. “Didn’t consider that some angels might have homoerotic desires of their own.”

“I still have some more we haven’t tried,” said Aziraphale, trailing his hand slowly up Crowley’s thigh. 

“Right,” he said, gripping the steering wheel and addressing his car. “Shall we test the bounds of space and time again?”

With the combined energies of an infernal being and the angel who very much wanted to get him into bed, the Bentley made the hour-and-a-half trip in just fifteen minutes. The concept of a road was stretched to its very limit that afternoon. 

Aziraphale spent the following week on the brink of a nervous breakdown. He didn’t want to leave the bookshop totally empty, but he was having trouble deciding which books should come to the cottage and which should remain in London. More than once, Crowley found him standing between two shelves, brow furrowed as he weighed his options. 

“Some decisions are simple, of course,” he said, one night over Thai food. “The majority of the books that Adam added when he reinstated the place can stay here. I don’t need the full set of Biggles books with me, thank you very much. But, logically, everything else should be divided in half. How am I supposed to choose which half of my poetry books come with me, I ask you?”

“Listen, I think we’re missing an easy solution here,” said Crowley. “There’s no need to be bashful with miracles anymore. You send all your books to the cottage and I’ll create a duplicate set to stay here, keeping your shelves all lively.”

Aziraphale tutted at him. “My dear, you can’t simply duplicate a first edition Wilde. That goes against the fundamental ethics of rare book dealership.”

“I’m not making a profit, am I?” said Crowley. “This is just to keep the shelves full.”

He had considered it before, of course -- duplicating and selling the many rare first editions Aziraphale had in his shop. Back in the day it would have been a simple and dastardly way to supplement his income. Every time he’d gone to do it, though, he thought of what might happen if someone discovered the fake and traced it back to Aziraphale. Crowley would probably just end up needing to save him from discorporation at the hands of some murderous book collector, so it didn't make much sense.

In the end, Aziraphale agreed, begrudgingly, to this arrangement. With that decided, he had only a smattering of other possessions he wanted to bring along. They’d agreed that they would furnish the cottage from scratch once they arrived. Crowley hung around the shop as Aziraphale packed up journals that he’d kept and keepsakes that he’d collected across the centuries. The angel kept eyeing him warily until he finally asked the question that had been building for days.

“Don’t you need to get anything from your flat?”

“Nope,” said Crowley. “I moved my plants out to the cottage the day we bought it. Everything else is staying put so I can sell the place with furnishing included.”

Aziraphale nodded and returned to his boxes, only to turn back moments later. “Isn’t materialism considered a sin? You’re likely the least materialistic demon in existence.”

Crowley shrugged. “You’re the most materialistic angel, so I suppose that balances things out.”

"Are your plants all right? Out there in the cottage on their own?"

"They'll behave, if they know what's good for them."

There was nothing keeping them in London, but there was nothing pushing them into the cottage either. Crowley was ready to leave, but he waited until Aziraphale woke up one morning and said that it was time. Though their belongings went on ahead of them, miracled into place at the cottage, Aziraphale requested that they drive out in the Bentley. This was a momentous occasion, he explained, and it required more ceremony than simply snapping themselves out of existence here and into existence in the countryside. 

Aziraphale sent his books to the cottage, and the shelves weren’t bare for more than a second before Crowley snapped his fingers to install the copies. They took one last look around the bookshop, and then Aziraphale locked it up and they climbed into the Bentley. Crowley choked up a bit, in spite of himself, at the thought of leaving the bookshop. Though he knew it would still be there for them, this truly was the beginning of a new chapter. No more late nights drinking under the guise of discussing the arrangement, no more clandestine meetings on buses. But this also meant no more pining, no more painfully tense moments they couldn’t act upon. 

As they drove off down the street, Crowley keeping the Bentley at a far slower pace than normal, Aziraphale turned to look at the bookshop. Crowley heard him sniffling and reached over to take his hand. 

“London is where I fell in love with you,” said Aziraphale, still staring back out the window. “Or, I suppose it’s where I realized that I was already in love with you.”

“Oh?” said Crowley, struggling to keep his voice even. 

“Yes, it was at the church, with the Nazis,” said Aziraphale. 

“Ah, that old romantic trope,” said Crowley, smirking. 

“Shush, it was a very important night,” said Aziraphale, finally turning to face forward. “You saved the books, I couldn’t believe you’d saved the books.”

Crowley shrugged. “I knew how much they meant to you. Besides, I hadn’t seen you in a while. I guess I was sort of apologizing for that.”

Aziraphale leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “You old softie.”

* * * * * * 

Though it was still not his favorite indulgence, Aziraphale found himself sleeping more often once they were settled at the cottage. Sometimes he made a point of performing a nighttime routine alongside Crowley -- brushing their teeth at the twin sinks in the bathroom, reading a few chapters of a book while Crowley scrolled through his phone, and finally snuggling together under the duvet. Other times, it happened completely organically, after they’d made love or as they lay together on the couch in front of the telly. Crowley had told him how restful sleep was, even if they didn’t technically need to rest, but Aziraphale found his own reasons for enjoying the practice. A nap taken after a long, large meal felt utterly wonderful, and a sunrise could be far lovelier if one made a point of waking up for it.

It was particularly pleasant to wake up in their new cottage. Aziraphale loved the way sunlight streamed into their bedroom, highlighting the copper tones in Crowley’s hair. Some mornings he got up straight away to make tea for them to enjoy in bed. But sometimes he couldn’t bear to leave Crowley, preferring to huddle close to him under the duvet until he was ready to wake up. Sometimes it was nearing noon when the demon finally stirred, leaning in for a kiss and listening patiently as Aziraphale pondered what they might have for lunch.

“I know you’re watching me sleep,” Crowley mumbled one morning, eyes still closed. “Don’t you know how creepy that is?”

“I can’t help it, darling,” said Aziraphale, cupping Crowley’s cheek and threading his fingers into the hair above his ear. “If you knew how lovely you looked just now, you would understand.”

“Still creepy,” said Crowley. “And far too sappy. C’mere, you must be punished.”

Aziraphale went willingly, teasing Crowley with a brief kiss that made the demon shift closer, one hand snaking up Aziraphale’s spine to reel him in. The first kiss was a bit rough, but then Crowley’s fingers trailed gently over Aziraphale’s jaw, and he slid his tongue between his teeth. At some point, ages ago, Crowley had made a passing remark about the unique abilities of his tongue. They’d both been drunk at the time, and Aziraphale convinced himself it was a dream. But now it was clear that the demon had been telling the truth -- Aziraphale had kissed human men, and none of them could do what Crowley did.

“Oh, damn,” said Aziraphale, pulling back for a moment. “Pins and needles in my arm.”

“Here, this is better anyway,” said Crowley, turning onto his back. Smirking at him, Aziraphale got up on his knees and straddled Crowley’s hips. He leaned down to kiss him again and shivered as Crowley slid his fingers into his hair. 

“I guess it’s one of those days,” said Aziraphale, kissing Crowley’s neck as he moved his hips against the demon’s growing erection. “You know, the kind where we just stay in bed.”

“Ah, you mean a day that ends with a ‘y,’” said Crowley, running his hands along Aziraphale’s thighs, barely holding back a wanton moan. 

“I resent that remark,” said Aziraphale. “You know perfectly well that we do things other than have sex all day.”

“Mmm, but sometimes the _temptation_ is just too great. Eh, angel?” 

Now Aziraphale’s trousers were feeling a bit tight as well. He bent over to kiss Crowley again, hands splayed across his lean chest, pinning him to the bed. “You just can’t resist, can you? Once a tempter, always a tempter.”

“Well, it’s quite easy when you have a willing partner,” said Crowley. “One who barely needs any tempting at all. Now, touch me.”

Aziraphale slipped his hand inside Crowley’s boxers and stroked him to full hardness, enjoying the way Crowley’s breathing became heavier, how his fingers clawed at the sheets and his hips thrust upward. He pressed his head back into the pillow, and Aziraphale leaned down to kiss at his throat. When Crowley’s hips began to move a bit too desperately, Aziraphale stilled his hand. 

“Enjoying yourself?” he said, kissing Crowley softly, just barely licking into his mouth each time. 

“God, yes,” Crowley gasped, following him each time he pulled back, searching for a deeper kiss. 

“So am I, my dear,” said Aziraphale. He miracled away their pyjamas and rubbed his length against Crowley’s hip.

“So I see,” said Crowley, grinning and reaching between them. 

“No, please,” he stammered, pushing Crowley’s hand out of the way. “I want to save myself for you.”

Crowley let out a desperate moan, eyes wide as Aziraphale reached between his legs. With a deft gesture, he slicked his fingers and pushed inside Crowley, kissing at his chest when the demon arched off the bed. This was, by far, the most solid confirmation they had that neither Heaven nor Hell was interested in them any longer. If either head office had been paying attention, they surely would have noticed the dozens upon dozens of ‘frivolous miracles’ Aziraphale and Crowley performed while in bed together. As it was, no one had shown up in their bedroom to reprimand them for excessive, miraculous lubrication. 

Aziraphale crooked his fingers and found the sweet spot that made Crowley whimper his name and push back against his touch. As he prepared him, Aziraphale leaned down to kiss along Crowley’s breastbone, tongue straying to swirl around one nipple. 

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” said Crowley, his voice strained. “Please, angel...please.”

This was Aziraphale’s favorite part, when Crowley was begging for him. He gently removed his fingers and shifted into position, spreading Crowley’s legs. As he pushed inside, he watched Crowley's face, relishing the look of utter pleasure. His brilliant yellow eyes clenched shut and then opened wide as Aziraphale bottomed out. He stayed there for a moment, watching Crowley’s heaving chest before he started up a steady rhythm. 

“So good,” he murmured. “Positively...exquisite, my dear.”

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_” said Crowley, who would readily admit to being less than loquacious in bed. He reached out for Aziraphale’s hand, entwining their fingers and squeezing. Aziraphale’s heart soared, as it always did when Crowley reached for him during moments like this. 

Between Aziraphale’s hand on his cock and fingers inside him, Crowley was painfully hard. Each time Aziraphale brushed his prostate, Crowley squeezed his hand, hips jerking upward. With a flick of his wrist, Aziraphale slicked up his free hand and reached down to take pity on Crowley. He was rewarded with the sight of the demon surrendering to him completely, overcome by the feel of his thrusts inside him and now his hand on his cock. It didn’t take long for Crowley to reach the edge and go toppling over, moaning Aziraphale’s name so loudly that he was glad they didn’t have neighbors.

Aziraphale slowed his hips as Crowley came down, though it pained him to do so. As Crowley lay gasping for breath, Aziraphale leaned down to give him a tender kiss. When he pulled back, his heart leapt at the sight of Crowley, flushed and smiling softly up at him. 

“Come on, angel,” he said, clenching around him. “Your turn.” 

After that, it was over rather quickly. Just a few more thrusts and he was coming, repeating Crowley’s name as though it were a prayer. As he softened, Aziraphale pulled away from Crowley and flopped down on the bed beside him, the remnants of pleasure relaxing him completely.

“Oh,” Crowley groaned, turning his head to plant a sloppy kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead. “Oh, angel...that was bloody brilliant.” 

When Aziraphale had caught his breath, he propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at Crowley -- beautiful Crowley, with his eyes like sunshine and hair like fire. Waves of gratitude washed over him -- for the cottage, for Crowley, for the _world_ \-- and he bit his lip to stop himself from crying. It wasn’t uncommon for him to cry after they made love, which had concerned Crowley at first, until Aziraphale had assured him it was the good kind of crying. All the same, he tried not to do it every time because that would just be embarrassing. 

“I love you, my dear,” he said, leaning down for a slow kiss. 

“Love you,” said Crowley. He looped his arm around Aziraphale’s waist and pulled him down onto the bed, nestled him in beside him. “Right, well, settle in. Because after that, I’m afraid I can’t let you leave.”

Aziraphale chuckled softly, cheek pressed to Crowley’s bare shoulder. “And why is that?”

“You’ve well and truly fucked me, and I can’t stand up for at least an hour,” said Crowley. “I’ll have to hold you hostage for the duration.” 

“Whatever shall I do?” said Aziraphale, letting his eyes drift shut. “I should probably thwart you.”

“Ah, but you won’t,” said Crowley. 

“No, I suppose not.” Aziraphale had never tried very hard to thwart Crowley, even before he considered him a friend. Now it felt immensely freeing to simply admit he wasn’t going to try. No one was listening, no one cared if he put up a fight or not. There were no sides to uphold, and no reports to file. Truly, Aziraphale had never felt so at ease.

Crowley fell back asleep, arm gone slack across Aziraphale’s waist and each soft exhalation ruffling Aziraphale’s curls. Sleep was Crowley’s favorite indulgence after they’d had sex, but food was Aziraphale’s. He wanted to remain curled up with Crowley, but soon the desire for scones with cream and jam became too difficult to resist. Aziraphale had learned that it was nearly impossible to wake Crowley once the demon had fallen asleep. So he gently moved Crowley’s arm and slid away off the bed, gesturing sharply downward to reclothe himself. 

Though eating was far more up Aziraphale’s street than cooking, he had to admit that their new kitchen was beautiful. He stretched his arms out, craning his neck back to admire the exposed wooden beams. At the bookshop, he might have simply conjured up some scones and tea, ready to eat. But there was something about the cottage, and his new country surroundings, that made Aziraphale want to take his time. He boiled the water for tea and brewed it to his liking. Then he sat at their kitchen table and assembled three scones (cream before jam, obviously) while watching some sparrows flit about the trees outside. 

“Do y’know...I had the weirdest thought just now.” 

Aziraphale turned away from the birds to find Crowley wandering into the kitchen, hair sticking up in strange directions, black dressing gown draped over his thin frame. Crowley in the morning was one of Aziraphale’s new favorite things. This was a Crowley unknown to him before the averted apocalypse, a Crowley who was not perfectly put together and swaggering all over creation. This was a Crowley just for him. 

“Oh?” he prompted, taking another bite of scone. 

Crowley pulled out the chair across from Aziraphale and sat down heavily. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

Aziraphale smiled sweetly. “I can promise to try.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes and bumped his knee against Aziraphale’s under the table. “I was thinking we might have a picnic today.”

Aziraphale stopped chewing and stared at Crowley in disbelief. “Are you being funny?”

“What? No. I was, I just thought…”

“I’m just surprised,” said Aziraphale, swallowing his bite of scone. “I didn’t think you would be interested in a picnic.”

“Well, maybe it’s the country air,” said Crowley, reaching out to steal a piece of scone. “Or maybe all the sex is affecting my brain, making me go insane. Y’know, one or the other.” 

Aziraphale pushed his plate toward the middle of the table and smiled fondly when Crowley broke off another bite of scone. “I did suggest a picnic once, when I gave you the holy water. Do you remember?” 

Crowley swallowed thickly and glanced up at Aziraphale. “I remember everything about that, angel.”

Aziraphale sighed and took Crowley’s hand in his own. “I’m so sorry for what I said, my dear. Things were so different back then, and I didn’t feel that I could give you what you wanted.” 

“I know that now,” said Crowley, squeezing his fingers. “Anyway, that’s ancient history. Look at us now, with our cottage and scones. The very picture of disgusting domesticity.”

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale, beaming at him. “Shall we continue our ridiculousness on the grounds, for all to see?”

Crowley snorted. “For all the sparrows and foxes? Yes, I believe we shall.” 

Aziraphale nodded and let Crowley finish his scones. It was true that the only creatures around for miles were furry ones, and Aziraphale was confident they were the only ones who might be watching. It had been months since the averted apocalypse, and they’d heard nary a peep from their respective head offices. Later, as he sat on a checkered blanket with a book in hand and Crowley’s head in his lap, Aziraphale felt a long and happy future unfurl before him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated. :)
> 
> NOTE: Thanks to a question from AO3 user tenner, there is now a small missing scene posted in the comments. Check it out!


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